


you look so cool when you’re reading me

by abbean



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh! Zexal
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Masturbation, Other, POV Second Person, Post-Canon, astral's also a they their pronouns just don't come up, nonbinary characters - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27097327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abbean/pseuds/abbean
Summary: You may hate Number Ninety-six—or at least you wish you did—but you can’t deny reality.  You’re having the sexual awakening you hadn’t realized was long overdue while listening to and watching them pleasure themself, and you aren’t sure you can imagine it happening any other way.
Relationships: Astral/No. 96 Black Mist | Dark Mist
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	you look so cool when you’re reading me

You’re on the top stair when you hear it: a soft cry, partly muffled it seems, in a voice you know quite well but can hardly believe. Surely—? The noise repeats, and you release the railing, realizing only when you do just how _hard_ you’d begun to grip it. Your footsteps as you approach the source are silent, owed largely in part to the carpet beneath your socks; when you reach the bathroom door, you notice it’s ajar, and in spite of the sudden vice gripping your chest you feel a small ripple of irritation. They’ve been _told_ —and not just by you!—that forays to the bathroom are to be kept private as a matter of common courtesy, even if the threat of death is in fact negligible (contrary to what you’d previously been led to believe).

“Number Ninety-six,” you begin, a fist raised to knock, “are you all right?” Not that you _care,_ of course; it’s just that, if Ninety-six managed to die in the bathroom, they likely made a mess of the plumbing in the process, and you don’t want Akari to have to deal with that.

You notice a new sound, one not unlike the hum of the electric toothbrush Yuma seldom uses. Of course, you think; Ninety-six is making petty mischief by disturbing Yuma’s things. You ready yourself to tell them off for it, remark how _pitiful_ it is that they can do little else, perhaps—all while your human heart beats light and fast against your ribs—and then, unbidden, you open the door another inch or two, and the rant you’d started in your head dies long before it reaches your lips.

You weren’t _quite_ so naïve that you _hadn’t_ realized Number Ninety-six was masturbating in the bathtub, truth be told, but that doesn’t make it any less startling to see. They’ve spread out as much as the tight space will allow, one foot propped up on the soap dish and the other braced against the wall; the dark hair around their face is damp despite their attempt to keep it tied up out of the water, and the expression on their face is one you’ve never witnessed, eyes closed and lips parted—almost serene. The buzzing, you find, comes from the device in their left hand, bright pink in color and phallic in shape. It’s clearly bringing them great pleasure, whatever it is: you watch as Ninety-six rubs the end of the object between their legs, then applies pressure, and the tips of your ears begin to burn at the quiet, almost _gentle_ moan they give in response.

This is the part where you walk away. Go back downstairs—you can’t even remember why you came up in the first place—and find Yuma, perhaps; nothing distracts you more than a Duel. Or maybe Haru needs help preparing dinner, or Akari wants a fresh set of eyes to proofread a rough draft for her. Without a doubt, there is _something_ you could be doing that isn’t— _this:_ lingering outside the bathroom like some sort of voyeur, your pulse throbbing in your throat as your gaze bores into your former enemy. “Former” only because they’ve been stripped of their power, true, but surely that makes Ninety-six no less deserving of their privacy? Especially since they’ve been quite well-behaved as of late, by their standards, anyway. Fewer attempts to sneak off and wreak havoc in Heartland, less bickering with Yuma (who, to be fair, provokes Ninety-six as often as they provoke him); they’ve even been civil to the others, Kotori and Tetsuo and the rest. You stand only to lose by making them angry and reinvigorating their drive for revenge. It doesn’t matter that they’re as vulnerable as you’ve ever seen them, lashes fluttering against their cheeks as they breathe slow and shallow. There’s no reason to stare at their human body as though seeing it for the first time: the fair skin decorated in sea-green markings like tattoos, same as your own; the inky black hair tickling their face like playful fingers; the slender limbs and slim shoulders and dainty, delicate hips trembling against the bathmat. Devoid of claws, their fingers are almost adorably tiny as they curl around the lip of the tub, the knuckles gone white with effort. A recent episode of _ESPer Robin_ saw him kiss a rescued princess’ hand; you wonder, suddenly and inexplicably, if Ninety-six would enjoy the same.

Their thumb flicks a switch you didn’t see. The device’s purr grows slightly louder, and Ninety-six sucks in a breath—you _feel_ the shudder when they exhale like a shiver up your spine. Your logician’s brain wonders what exactly is happening to make them react this way: you’ve studied human sexual activity, covertly, of course, and nothing you’ve read or seen referenced stimulating yourself externally with a thin electric phallus. Another part of you, though—for what might well be the first time—isn’t remotely concerned with the specifics, only with Ninety-six’s _intriguing_ responses. You watch, fascinated—shuffling closer to the doorjamb so they won’t see—as the hand clenching the edge of the bathtub glides through the water and touches their chest. Their wrinkled fingers close around a nipple; Ninety-six tugs, and a low, contented noise spills from the back of their throat, their body sinking lower into the water. Interesting, you think. You’ve never thought of nipples as anything more than a source of mild amusement, completely redundant given the incredible likelihood you’re sterile. You bring a hand up to your own chest, slow in your uncertainty. The slightest brush of your fingertips, even through the fabric of Yuma’s t-shirt, makes you twitch with sensitivity; the nipple changes texture, becoming stiff and bumpy. You mimic Ninety-six’s movements—the rubbing, the light pulling—and you’re rewarded with a sensation you can only describe as _tingly,_ the breath catching in your throat. So much for vestigial structures!

Which would mean—you peer closer, your blood beating loudly in your ears. What you’ve observed suggested intercourse revolved around penetration, a penis inserting and then _re_ inserting itself into the vagina repeatedly and with a gusto that bordered on violence. You often wondered how that could be _comfortable,_ let alone pleasurable. Ninety-six’s gadget is similarly shaped, but they aren’t using it to simulate a penis, it seems; instead their attention stays on the apex of their vulva near their pubic bone, which you’re guessing is a _very_ sensitive area, judging by their strained breaths and soft, tiny moans.

It’s a bad idea—an idea Yuma when you first met him would have considered bad, even. But you’re clearly not using your best judgment today anyway, and you’ve always been a very curious creature. Your hand slips down, reaches the waistband of your jeans, and then—startling yourself with your own boldness—you unfasten the button to touch yourself over your underwear. You find the pubis without difficulty. Fearful and eager, you travel lower, press down—

You slap your free hand over your mouth—the best decision you’ve made yet—to muffle a sharp cry. Observation number—what number are you on?—observation number _whatever-the-hell:_ that’s a very, _very_ good place to touch indeed. Granted, not as a good place to touch outside the Tsukumos’ bathroom door while spying on your enemy-turned-housemate’s private moment, most likely, but—well—

Ninety-six _keens,_ and you force yourself to accept the truth: you’re enjoying this. You may hate Number Ninety-six—or at least you wish you did—but you can’t deny reality. You’re having the sexual awakening you hadn’t realized was long overdue while listening to and watching them pleasure themself, and you aren’t sure you can imagine it happening any other way. The world is cold and cruel.

Keeping your palm pressed to your mouth— _obviously_ you can’t be trusted—you experiment by rubbing small, tight circles with your fingertips. Your legs start to shake; you spare a thought to miss being unbound by gravity. Behind the door you hear that strange device get even louder, and then it’s _Ninety-six’s_ turn to emulate _you,_ forcing the first two knuckles of their free hand between their teeth to quiet themself as they rock their hips. You hear them muttering under their breath—nothing sensical; mostly profanity and other bits you can’t make out. You think you know what happens next, and you battle a myriad of different emotions: excitement, jealousy, shame, guilt, disgust, _need._ They said that to you once, didn’t they? _You need me._ You hadn’t understood that then, much like you _barely_ understand any of _this_ now, but you find yourself completely disinclined to fight it, whatever it is. Time enough to think it over later; in this moment, all you want to do is _feel._

Ninety-six whines, chokes on a gasp, and then _groans_ with an ardor that sets you on fire.

It lasts several seconds, though it seems like _much_ longer, Ninety-six whimpering and twitching through that peak. You rut against your hand, desperate for more friction, more pressure, _more_ —and then, finally, that machine goes silent, and you freeze, cupping your crotch and covering your mouth. Your pulse in your ears is screaming.

A moment passes. Another. Then—

“I can’t decide if you’re _really_ kinky or just shy,” Ninety-six says. “Either way, I can help you out, Astral, love.”

Is this body capable of death? Would _you_ die with it? You sure hope so.

You yank your hand from your jeans, and, not even bothering with the clasp, dart down the hallway and descend the stairs two at a time. Ninety-six’s snickers linger in your ears.

Were that the _only_ thing.

**Author's Note:**

> couldn't even wait 'til i'd finished zexal to be horny over this rarepair, sigh. as always, feel free to drop me a line. stay safe in these streets.


End file.
